heart over brain

Part 2

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The voice is rough. Deep, manly. Could be a rock singer who smokes a pack of cigarettes a day.

"Shit!" I hear. Footsteps, some rustling. "Are you okay?" the voice says again, a bit softer. A hand wraps around my arm and pulls me up.

I come to a stand. More confused than ever. It takes me a moment to realize that the person belonging to the voice knocked me off my feet and helped me up again.

Then I stare.

And stare and stare and stare.

"You – okay?" he says.

"Yes." I exhale.

No, I am definitely not. I must have hit my head too, pretty hard, because it isn't possible that the guy standing in front of me is – is –

Is unmistakably the same one who should be sitting in the east corner cell and brooding the night away.

Or he has an identical twin.

Haha. Nice one, brain.

"Are you sure? You look a bit – pale," he says.

No shit. I must look like I am staring at a ghost. A rather handsome ghost. With an edgy chin, an adorable mole on his left cheek, and blond hair that from close up are quite obviously not naturally that colour and in dire need of some professional attending to.

His eyes nervously jump up and down the street, his tall and broad shoulders are turned halfway to go, and too large hands hover somewhere between us, like he expects me to keel over any second now.

I just might.

Something rustles behind the fence, and he obviously remembers his situation. Which is –

"Hey, do you live around here? I'll take you home to make sure you are okay?" he says and before I know it, his hand lands on my back and pushes me to go.

"Y-You –" I try.

"Can't be careful enough, right?"

"I-I am –"

"Oh, and would you mind lending me your phone for a bit? Just one call and you'll get it back. Promise."

I stare up at him and don't know what to say. He flashes me a painfully faked smile, eyes still nervously scanning the dark surrounding.

I should yell and scream and tell the police just inside the fence that who they are looking for is right here. I should run, I should knock him over, I should – anything.

"I know who you are." My glorious brain decides.

"What?!" He startles. His eyes snap at me and stay there, for the first time. We stop, but his hand remains where it is – burning a hole in my back.

"I mean, I don't know know who you are, but I know," I say. "You can drop the act."

What the hell am I doing? I am not just a pervert and a weirdo, I have absolutely lost my mind. Like, rock bottom crazy, absolutely bananas, in dire need of a white hug-myself-jacket.

"What?" he repeats. His brows furrow in confusion.

"I mean..." The rest of the sentence gets jumbled up on my tongue. What do I mean? I stare at him, and he stares back at me, and I don't know anymore. I don't know anything anymore. I am a braindead bundle of hormones.